Friday, May 9, 2008

I am not sane, I am a writer.

Sometimes my husband gives me the strangest looks. The kind where his eyes dart fertively about landing on me occasionaly. He doesn't want to ofend me, but he thinks I'm crazy. It's the same kind of look I get when I am mulling over a storyline to myself out in public or I blurt out a twist in my plot line like an "aha moment" in the grocery store. My husband has caught me scribbling on my tabletop notpad in the early morning hours or have held entire conversations with me before he realizes I haven't been paying attention. I can be with him, but not with him (knowwhatI'msayin'?) There are worlds fully populated going on inside my head. There are charcters attached to my insides like tapeworms dependent on me for basic nutrients. There are governments that need to be overthrown, conspiracies that need uncovering and countries that need to be evaded and I am the commander-and-chief. Excue me if I appear a little scatterbrain. No, I'm not just starring at the acreen although my work has been covered over at least 30 minutes by the screensaver. Yes, I need those little scraps of paper, napkins and bathroom tissue I've written on . Yes I take your threat of, don't bring another book into this house, as a personal challenge.
When we first met I told him I was a writer. I am almost certain now that he didn't know what that entails. I made a deal with him then. I'll allow you (and our susbsequent offspring ) in, BUT I have this task, this mission that I must accomplish. It's never ending. It's all consuming. It's unexpalinable. Don't ask, you won't understand the process. BUT if I want to share a piece of my offering, lap it up like a faithful dashhound, sit at my feet until I dismiss you with a pat on the head. My area is of limits. It is a mess, and yes, it ate up your magazine. You laid it on my desk at your own risk.
I told my husband I was a writer. That makes me the worst crackpot. I have more personalities then Cybil. In some of my works I've been a pastor,grocerry store mangaer, personnal trainer, pyschatrist, police chief and a teenaged boy.
I told my husband I was a writer. I didn't say I was sane
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